


You Are Here

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Drag Queens, Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Homecoming, Pack Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:30:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they cross the boundary into Hale territory, Stiles shifts a little in his sleep, shoulders hunching. Lydia's immunity carries over into most of the supernatural world: she can't be bitten, she can't be poisoned, and she's never been able to do magic on her own. Unlike Stiles, she can't feel the veil that separates Beacon Hills from the rest of the world. Sometimes she wonders if what happened before they left would have turned out differently if she'd undergone some transformative alchemy, but usually she tries not to think about it at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** violence (past), physical and mental trauma
> 
>  **Notes:** This is a gen fic focused on Lydia and Stiles's friendship. However, there are several pairings in the background: Stiles/OMC, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Allison (past), Lydia/Erica, and Boyd/Isaac/OFC.
> 
>  **Thanks:** to my amazing crew of cheerleaders and betas, **clio_jlh** , **cutloosemcgoose** , **jamtart** , **mijra** , **snickfic** , and **sophia_sol**.
> 
>  **Art:** Gorgeous art by [**Caristia**](http://caristia.livejournal.com), who was a delight to work with and whose paintings transcended all my hopes and dreams!

  
  
[[see closeup at DeviantArt]](http://caristia.deviantart.com/art/Skye-Walker-And-The-Princesses-343704038)   


**june**

Stiles is helping LeDeanna put on her false eyelashes, smoothing them down onto the glue with steady fingers. He's leaning in toward LeDeanna and turned away from the mirror, so Lydia can't see his face at first, just the wig and the dress, falling in graceful white folds around him.

"Lyd!" Molly calls to her from across the room. "You made it!"

Stiles—Skye—steps back from LeDeanna, puts her hands on her hips, and says, "There. Now you don't look like a drunk hooker did your makeup."

"I resent that." Molly points her tube of Great Lash at Skye. "And no hating on hookers, babe."

"Ten minutes," Ariel says, ducking her head through the door. She's already dressed and ready to go, red hair cascading over her shoulders, mermaid tail hiked up so it doesn't drag on the linoleum. "How're you doing?"

" _Fabulous_ ," everyone choruses.

Skye comes over and gives Lydia a hug, teetering over her in platform boots that give her a five-inch lift. "I'm so glad you came," she says, squeezing Lydia's shoulders and holding her head up so her makeup doesn't smudge on Lydia. 

"Because Berkeley is so far away," Lydia says, smiling into Skye's chest. "Of course I came, loser."

LeDeanna puts on her wig, Skye zips Molly into her dress, and Lydia perches on the folding chair by the door and fiddles with her phone. She's seen Stiles perform a dozen times now, hung out with the ladies in bars or at movie night, helped him wipe off his makeup and gone shopping for dresses with him, but this is a big deal: this is the first time they've performed on Pride weekend. Lydia saw a flier on one of the telephone poles when she got off MUNI (SKYE WALKER AND THE PRINCESSES—$5—10PM FRIDAY) and took a photo with her face mashed up against Skye's, making a horrible grimace.

"I should go find a place to stand," Lydia says, when Ariel tells them they have five minutes left. "Break a leg, girls!"

"Yes, ma'am!" LeDeanna says. 

Skye gives Lydia a wink.


	2. Chapter 2

**december**

Stiles wheels his bike into the front hall and leans it below the mailboxes while he checks the mail. Catalogue, catalogue, water bill, a postcard from Stacy's sister. He throws them into his messenger bag and hikes the bike over his shoulder for the two-flight journey upstairs, trying not to get the tube of wrapping paper sticking out of his bag stuck in the bike frame or jostle the fake holly someone has draped over the mailboxes. Ah, the joys of holiday apartment living.

Inside his apartment, Stiles hangs up his bike on the rack by the door and dumps his messenger bag on the couch. "Do you know how heavy 10 pounds of flour and sugar are?" he calls down the hallway. " _Very_."

"Sorry," José calls back to him from the kitchen. It's just the two of them right now; their roommate Stacy is at work, filling in for someone on the morning shift. "Gabriela's going to pick me up tomorrow, but if I take her with me to Trader Joe's, we'll be there all day."

"It's okay," Stiles says. "I had to get snacks for the drive. And wrapping paper."

The wrapping paper looks like it made the trip home mostly unscathed, which is good, because Stiles doesn't have the time to go out and get more. He's running behind as it is. Yeah, he really needed the extension on that Chaucer paper, but maybe if Stiles had just budgeted his time a little better, José wouldn't be babysitting the Fimo clay that's in the oven and Stiles wouldn't be making emergency gift-wrap-and-grocery runs on his bike. Stiles checks his watch: he's still got at least forty-five minutes before Lydia gets here, which should be enough time for the clay to cool down. Probably.

"I dug the printer box out of the closet, it looks like it should be big enough," José says, stepping into the living room. He's already wearing the awful holiday sweater he bought for the party tonight that Rob is hosting tonight. The quantity of rhinestones on the snowflakes is fairly terrifying. Stiles suspects José added some, because he couldn't find the hot glue gun last night when he was turning his crafting hellhole back into their living room. Mostly. If he stuck the cutting mat behind the couch instead of trying to wedge it in the hall closet, no one has to know. "Do you want me to wrap it while you pack?"

"How are you the most amazing?" Stiles says. "What did I do to deserve this?"

José pulls the wrapping paper out of Stiles's messenger back before he starts sorting through the rest of the contents. "Groceries?"

"Point," Stiles says.

Stiles took up quilting out of self defense, because Stacy got sad that no one ever came to the quilting circle she was trying to start on campus (Quilts By QUILTBAGs) and Stiles lived with her. It was either quilt or die buried under the mounds of donated fabric that were threatening to take over their apartment. Stacy started him off on a basic nine-patch, but after he'd been making quilts for kids in foster homes for a year, he started to get more interested in patchwork and appliqué. Quilting turned out to be a great way to practice laying protective wards. Stiles made a lap quilt for José's sister's new baby— _be loved_ —a huge spread for their bed— _be warm_ —a hanging quilt for his dad's living room— _be safe_. Warding quilts is exhausting but awesome.

And it's good to keep up with warding, stay in shape. It's not like Stiles uses his spark for anything else these days.

—

Lydia, of course, is early.

The quilt is wrapped, the ornaments are wrapped in newspaper and stuffed in a tupperware, and everything else… well, there's a lot of stuff piled on Stiles's bed, but most of it is not actually going in his duffel. "Ugh, I still don't have a gift for Scott's mom," he says, frowning. "And I don't know what shirts to bring."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "You have eight thousand t-shirts and flannel overshirts at your dad's," she says. "I realize that having just the right plaid for every occasion is very important to you, but, metered parking here." 

It's true. Stiles gives his flannel collection one last regretful look before he starts throwing socks and boxers and his cleanest pair of jeans into the duffel bag. He's wearing the second cleanest pair with a USF shirt and a threadbare navy hoodie; they'll do. Lydia makes fun of him for how picky he is about Skye's wardrobe when most of the time he's barely capable of matching socks together, but hey, they're mostly white athletic socks, there's really no wrong way to pair those up. "Don't steal our laundry quarters for the meter again," he says. "The change machine at the laundromat is always broken."

"If you hurry up, I'll stop at In 'N' Out and let you eat in the car."

"Seriously, okay, okay, I'm done." Stiles slings the duffel over his shoulder. "José?"

José's in the kitchen, doing something with glitter and the stack of Christmas cards. "Hey," he says, looking up. "You guys have a safe drive, okay?"

"Will do," Stiles says, leaning in for a kiss. He still feels grossly sappy about basically everything about their relationship, shared grocery shopping and Christmas cards are no exception. "Love you, see you next year?"

"Sure thing," José says, smiling at Lydia as she jingles her car keys impatiently.

—

Beacon Hills isn't that far from San Francisco—less than three hours unless you hit rush hour traffic—and he talks to his dad two or three times a week, but over the past few years, Stiles has found himself going home less and less, just for major holidays and Dad's birthday. He doesn't even miss Beacon Hills that much anymore. It was more weird than anything to be surrounded with everyone he'd gone to high school with at Scott and Allison's wedding last year, to see Jackson and Danny and Isaac gathered around the same table again, to see Erica and Boyd dancing the Macarena. Stiles left José to Danny's tender mercies and snuck off mid-reception to get drunk under one of the vacated catering tables with Lydia. It was fun listening to her make fun of everyone they used to know up until she started crying into his shoulder about Allison, and they pretended that never happened the next day, so.

Whenever Stiles goes home, he rides with Lydia. He's not allowed to drive her beloved Mercedes, but he's expected to pony up half the gas and the bridge toll, which seems reasonable. They usually drive straight through to Auburn, where they pick up pie from Ikeda's if it's not too late. It's only 3 PM, so they should have time. Stiles could really go for some blueberry, although right now he's more in the mood for a burger.

True to her word, Lydia stops at the first In 'N' Out after they cross the Bay Bridge, complaining all the way. "We're never doing this again," she says, pulling into the driveway. "I can already feel the fry smell sinking into the upholstery."

"You can feel it? Do you have some kind of symbiotic relationship with Elsa? Because that would—hey, _milkshakes_. I'm getting chocolate this time."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Stop calling the car Elsa, Stiles. It doesn't have a name. Double-double? Fries?"

"Double-double animal style. That's it." The fries at In 'N' Out are always disappointing.

When they get to the speaker, Lydia orders for both of them, getting a kid's chocolate shake for herself. She taps her fingers against the steering wheel while they wait to pull up to the window. Stiles taps back at her on the door, although he's going for the theme to Spongebob Squarepants rather than the staid one-two of irritation. "Cut that out," she says after a minute, but she's smiling.

"'Absorbent and yellow and porous is he!'" Stiles sing-songs. "Come on, you have to admit that's some true lyrical excellence right there.'"

"Remind me why I'm giving you sugar," Lydia says.

—

Lydia is in her second year of the mathematics PhD program at Berkeley. She did her undergrad at Stanford, so she's been coming into to the city on weekends for years, crashing on a series of beanbags and futons and couches in the places where Stiles has lived. Stiles is still working on finishing up his undergraduate degree at the University of San Francisco, which shouldn't have taken this long, except that he kept changing his major and spent one semester on medical leave when he got mono and everything was so _interesting_ , how was he supposed to pick just one thing—story of his life, really. He's worked in the library since the second semester of his freshman year, and checking in so many awesome books didn't exactly help that problem.

"Hey, guess what," Stiles says, scrolling through the music on Lydia's iPhone until he finds the new Decemberists album.

"What?" she says.

"I'm graduating. This spring."

"For real?"

Stiles grins. "I have 152 credits right now, I sure hope so." And two majors and four minors, which turn out to be pretty easy to pick up by accident.

"What are you going to do?" Lydia shoots a quick, incredulous glance his way.

"Right now, I'm planning the Princesses' new show," Stiles says. "José's updating the setlist to include 'Love' from Robin Hood." It's going to be epic. Although nothing can really top the opening medley for pure camp."

"I'm not sure if I can watch LeDeanna stare deeply into your eyes and croon that without laughing," Lydia says.

"Actually, it's for Molly. She doesn't have a lot of solos right now since we gave 'Some Day My Prince Will Come' to Ariel."

"You should sing 'A Whole New World' with LeDeanna."

"LeDeanna and Skye are sisters," Stiles says. He's totally fine with Molly and Ariel making out on stage after LeDeanna sings 'Kiss the Girl,' but his relationship with José isn't part of the act. "Too weird."

"Uh huh," Lydia says.

Stiles manages to stay awake until they pass through the mountains, but after that, he leans his head against the window and closes his eyes. Next to him, Lydia's singing along, voice soft and slightly off-key. He listens to her until he falls asleep.

—

Ikeda's is out of blueberry, so Stiles picks up two slices of apple and Lydia gets a whole cherry pie. Stiles can't stop yawning while he's combing over the selection and he passes out again pretty much as soon as he gets back in the car. He comes to again when he hears the crunch of gravel under the tires and Lydia saying, "Wake up, you're home."


	3. Chapter 3

Lydia's roommate Karen has been in Iowa with her family for the last week, so Lydia's been rattling around their apartment by herself, finishing up her coursework and grading for the course she's TAing, not bothering to change out of her pajamas. It's restful during the day, but difficult at night, when every creak and rustle disturbs her. Lydia's never lived by herself. She's had some terrible roommates, but they're still better than having night terrors and taking out the trash alone. 

By the time she picks up Stiles, her skin is crawling with cabin fever and nerves. At least he doesn't give her too much shit for it. Once they're on the road, Lydia starts to feel better. She's driven 80 north enough times that she can almost do it in her sleep. Stiles always stares out the window at the landscape around them, even though most of it's boring-ass strip malls or flat valley land. There is nothing interesting between the Bay Area and Beacon Hills except pie, and tonight even Stiles is snoozing. He has this annoying, wheezy snore, the kind you get when you're still getting over a cold, and his face is mashed up against the window. Stiles is reassuringly awkward and dorky; he calms her down enough that she can focus on the Decemberists and sing along a little.

When they cross the boundary into Hale territory, Stiles shifts a little in his sleep, shoulders hunching. Lydia's immunity carries over into most of the supernatural world: she can't be bitten, she can't be poisoned, and she's never been able to do magic on her own. She can't feel it, either, the veil that separates Beacon Hills from the rest of the world. Sometimes she wonders if what happened before they left would have turned out differently if she'd undergone some transformative alchemy, but usually she tries not to think about it at all.

"Wake up, you're home," Lydia says when she pulls into Stiles's dad's driveway behind the Sheriff's cruiser. Stiles turns his head, blinks owlishly at her for a moment; she can see the moment that it registers that they're in Beacon Hills, not back in San Francisco.

"'Kay," Stiles says. He stumbles out of the car, limbs still heavy with sleep, and stretches with a huge yawn. Then he opens the back door and drags his duffle out, slings it over his shoulder. "Call me later? I want to drop by Full Moon. I can pick you up."

"Sure," Lydia says. Stiles's dad is already ducking his head out the front door, a broad smile on his face. "I'll do that."

Her parents only live fifteen minutes from Stiles's dad, but the drive feels long when she's by herself in the car. There's no one waiting for Lydia at the front door. She drops her suitcase in her room before she goes to find her mother. Mom is in the kitchen, waiting on something in the microwave, drumming her fingers on the countertop impatiently. She's dressed casually in what looks like this season at Ann Taylor Loft.

"Lydia," her mother says. She gives Lydia a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "You're here early."

"I brought pie." Lydia puts the pie down on the counter next to the coffee maker. "It's cherry."

"I'm on a diet," her mother says, looking down at the pie regretfully. "Maybe I'll have a piece later, though. Did your father call you?"

"No, why?" Absently, Lydia rubs at the scar on her thigh.

"He _said_ he—." The microwave dings; her mother sighs. "Your dad and I are getting a divorce."

"Oh," Lydia says.

Her mother takes the frozen dinner out of the microwave. It's a Lean Cuisine, a pizza. Lydia liked those back when she was obsessively counting calories. "He'll be here for Christmas, of course. But after that he'll have his own place. We're not sure what we'll do about the house."

Lydia doesn't know what to do with that. "I made plans for dinner tonight. Do you want me to stay here instead?"

"No, that's all right," her mother says. "I'll make something for all of us tomorrow night. Let's go shopping tomorrow afternoon? I still need to pick up something for your aunt." 

"Sure," Lydia says. "Let's do that."

She texts Stiles when she's back in her room; he's probably eating dinner with his dad, she doesn't want to call. _Escaping, meet you at your place?_

Her phone vibrates a few minutes later. _Want me to save you a plate?_

 _Not hungry_ , she types, then erases it. _I'll get something at Full Moon_

_BLOOMING ONION FUCK YEAH_

_Gross, not eating that_

_It's the size of my head though_

_Be there in thirty_

_LYDIA YOU'RE MY ONLY HOPE_

Lydia takes a dress and a pair of leggings out of her suitcase; she wore yoga pants and a t-shirt for the drive, but she can hardly go out like that. She brushes her hair out of her ponytail, puts on foundation, mascara, lipstick: that's enough. In the mirror, she almost looks like herself.

_LYDIIIIIA I CAN'T FINISH ONE ON MY OWN I JUST ATE MEATLOAF_

_Safewording on the blooming onion_

_FML_

—

Full Moon isn't crowded; it's a Sunday night and there's plenty of room at the bar. Erica is behind it, flirting with customers and showing off her toned midriff between leather pants and an AC/DC t-shirt cut low at the neck and tied up under her breasts. When she sees Lydia and Stiles, she sashays over to them, shaker in hand. "Babe," she says, slapping Stiles on the shoulder, "Lydia," blowing her a kiss. "What can I get you all? First drink's on the house."

"I'll have a Shirley Temple and she'll have a rum and Coke." Stiles is a model designated driver. "And maybe a burger?"

"Yeah, I'll take a burger," Lydia says. "Medium, with swiss and mushrooms?"

"You got it," Erica says. "No onion for you, Stiles?"

"Not tonight," Stiles says mournfully.

"I don't understand this thing with you and blooming onions," Lydia says once Erica has drifted over toward the kitchen window. "They're gross and, like, Hulk-sized."

"Werewolf-sized," Stiles agrees. "I think that's the point."

Full Moon is werewolf-owned-and-operated as well as wildly successful, possibly because Erica is the main bartender and Boyd the head chef; within a year, they were able to pay back Derek their startup costs. Full Moon has amazing food with locally sourced ingredients and craft beers and blooming onions the size of Stiles's head. It's the unofficial pack hangout spot.

Lydia and Stiles aren't exactly pack, but unlike werewolves, they can get drunk. So: Full Moon. A few rum and cokes, and maybe Lydia will start feeling human again. That's the plan.

"Anyone else coming?" she asks.

"Scott's on night shift right now, sends his regrets. Allison is tired, Isaac is up to his elbows in cremains, and Danny and Jackson are still AWOL. Derek will probably show up and loom, though." Stiles makes a face. "It's like he can smell the entire town or something."

"No, Boyd texted him." Erica sets their drinks in front of them. They both have festive umbrellas: Stiles's is pink and Lydia's is yellow. Erica is kind of the best. "Sorry, guys. I wasn't going to rat you out."

"It's okay." Lydia takes a sip of her drunk; fuck, that's _strong._. "Thanks," she adds.

"Erica, you gave me extra cherries!" Stiles sighs happily. "I love you."

Lydia's burger is perfectly cooked, warm and pink on the inside; by the time Derek Hale slides onto the bar stool next to Stiles, her stomach is full and she's feeling a pleasant buzz. Derek Hale looks exactly like he did the day she met him, leather jacket and cheekbones that belong in a knife rack and all, and maybe, if she didn't know him, she'd still be impressed. "Derek. So nice to see you."

"You're drunk," Derek says, looking her up and down like he can detect her blood alcohol level by sight. "What's going on?"

"She's not drunk, shut up." Stiles elbows Derek. "We just got here. It's Christmas break."

"Already?" Derek takes the beer Erica shoves at him, offering one of those toothy fake smiles to her pout.

"Dude, Christmas is in three days," Stiles says. "I'm pretty sure Erica started decorating the day after Thanksgiving, and you live with her, I figured you could do the math."

"Did you at least let Allison know you're here?"

"Go away, you're boring and no amount of drinking is going to relieve the tedium," Lydia says, putting a hand on Stiles's shoulder and leaning in. "We don't _belong_ to you."

Derek shoots Stiles a look, like Stiles is going to disagree with Lydia. It would probably be funny even if Lydia weren't three rum and Cokes into the night. She can feel Stiles tense beneath her hand.

"Give us some space, okay?" he says. "I'm coming to the bonfire, I'll be around. Was there something you needed?"

"No," Derek says. "Just—checking in."

—

When Lydia gets home, she lies down on her bed and lets Stiles bring her water and vitamins and this week's supposedly hangover-dispelling concoction. Stiles puts clean pajamas at the end of her bed in case she regains the will to live before morning. Her mother doesn't turn up to check on them.

"I want to call Allison," she says, mostly into the pillow. "I didn't call Allison. You called her, but I didn't."

"You are way too drunk to call Allison," Stiles says, like he does every time. "But if you want, I'll call her for you and put her on speakerphone."

"Okay," Lydia says.

Allison's voice is faint and tinny when Stiles gets her on the line. " _Stiles? It's midnight. Is there an emergency?_ "

"Uh, no." Stiles scratches the back of his neck. "I just forgot—you go to bed kind of early, sorry. What time should I come over there tomorrow?"

" _Eleven's fine._ " Now she sounds affectionate, bemused. " _Are you still out with Lydia? Say hi for me._ "

"Will do!"

" _See you tomorrow_."

Lydia rolls over and burrows her face into the pillow. She listens to Stiles flick on the bedside lamp and pad over to the door to turn off the overhead light, footsteps muffled by the thick pile of the carpet. The bed creaks when he sits down next to her. "That help?"

"Sometimes I just want to hear her." Lydia can't remember the last time she called Allison. They're friends on Facebook; Allison texted her when she wanted Lydia's address for the wedding invitation. They see each other once or twice a year.

Stiles rubs her back, slow strokes from between her shoulder blades to the dip of her spine. "Yeah, I get it."

"No, you don't," Lydia says, turning her head up so she can squint at him out of the corner of her eye. "Look, I know you love me, Stiles. But it's cool, okay? You have a boyfriend and you have a life, you have lots of nice things. It's not—it doesn't get in the way of—you and me. Being friends."

"It's not the kind of thing you just get over," Stiles says.

"That's what I thought," Lydia says, and then she's asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles ends up sleeping in one of the guest rooms at Lydia's house because her car is still at his house and the morning's going to be busy enough without a trip back her to pick it up. His dad is fine with any sleepovers that aren't related to imminent supernatural crises, so Stiles shoots him a text, princess-and-the-pea-s himself through three different couches, and finally resorts to sleeping on top of the comforter on the guest bed so he doesn't mess up the immaculate Pottery Barn feel that permeates every single room in the house. He's pretty sure Lydia's parents don't shop at Pottery Barn, though; they make more money than that.

At 9am, he undertakes the selfless labor that is plying Lydia with coffee, gently pushing her towards the shower, and waiting in the kitchen for the next half-hour playing Plants vs. Zombies on his phone. As long as Lydia doesn't drown in there, he should have plenty of time for a refreshing sojourn at Casa Stilinski before he heads to Scott and Allison's house.

When Lydia's mom walks in and eyes the single-cup brewer skeptically (did he leave the little cup thing in? no, he rinsed it out and put it in the recycle bin, that's good), Stiles fumbles his phone into his pocket and gets to his feet. "Mrs. Martin! It's nice to see you!"

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a half-smile he can't read. "Stiles, isn't it? You're here early."

He shrugs, trying for casual. "Lydia left her car at my place, just trying to reunite them, mercy errand, yadda yadda. How about you?"

"It's my kitchen," Mrs. Martin says pointedly.

"Well, yeah," Stiles says. Then he goes back to Plants vs. Zombies for another five minutes while Mrs. Martin makes her coffee and eats a nonfat yogurt, because there is seriously no conversational alternative that would be an improvement on awkward mutual silence here.

Lydia glides into the kitchen with sunglasses and a determined smile firmly fixed on her face. "Stiles. Mom. Good morning."

"I'm leaving for the mall in an hour," Mrs. Martin says with no preamble. "If you want to come with, you'll have to be back by then."

"Got it," Lydia says.

"Elsa won't wait forever," Stiles says, and with a nod to Lydia's mom, he's making his way to the foyer and sweet, sweet freedom before Lydia can even start grousing about what he calls her car. 

—

"Ugh," Lydia says, leaning her head against the window as Stiles backs out of the driveway. "Why is it morning? Why does morning exist?"

"To destroy our souls." Stiles shifts gears. "I let you sleep for _eight hours_ , I am a benevolent god of mercy. And morning also exists for pancakes. Of delicious not-soul-destruction. Which I will soon be eating at Scott's."

"Scott can make pancakes now?"

"I think Allison mixes the batter and he flips them. They're like burgers, he knows how to do those."

They lapse into comfortable silence on the drive over. As always, Stiles can't help but be a little distracted by his surroundings in the periphery. He comes home two or three times a year and each time there's something changed, like his memory is a stuttering film that's missing most of the frames. The high school has a new building, the pizza place he and Scott always used to go to is now a deli, and someone has bought Danny's old house. It was for sale when he was here this summer.

Stiles sees Lydia frequently enough that she's a continuous stream, unbroken since the day in third grade when he fell in love with her. He wasn't lying when he said it wasn't the kind of thing you just get over, but the tenor of his feelings has changed. What he wants most from Lydia is what he has: someone who's seen the best and worst and weirdest parts of him, who'll zip him up in a prom dress and push him on stage, for whom his presence has become that same kind of constant.

"Tell Allison I say hi back," Lydia says as she climbs out of his car.

"Sure thing," he says, aiming finger guns her way. Then he heads inside for a shower and some Dad-heckling. There's a _reason_ Dad's supposed to use Smart Balance and not fucking Country Crock.

—

Scott and Allison live two blocks from Mrs. McCall, which Stiles privately thinks is kind of weird but they don't seem to mind. Their house is a little one-story bungalow that needed a ton of renovations to make habitable, but they had a werewolf pack for free labor. The weekend that he was in town, Stiles stuck to spackling and watching José cut tile in a sleeveless shirt and threadbare jeans because, hey, Stiles is only human.

José did a good job on the tile, too: the subway tile on the kitchen backsplash is neatly and evenly set, in keeping with the funky vintage style Allison favors in the home decoration department. She's sitting at the table in the breakfast nook with Stiles while Scott doles out pancakes. The first two are burned on the outside and uncooked in the middle, but the rest look okay. Potential salmonella is nothing a little maple syrup can't remedy.

"You want to come with us to Mom's in a little bit?" Scott asks. "It's Christmas cookie day."

"Please," Allison says, turning desperate eyes on Stiles. "They're making gingerbread, lemon bar cookies, almond bark, and _rum balls_ , and Melissa and I don't mix well in the kitchen."

Stiles winces. "Yeah, I remember last year." Allison likes to measure out her ingredients beforehand into little Pyrex bowls, sifts her flour into a bowl specifically for dry ingredients before she blends in salt and the appropriate rising agent with a fork, and lines her immaculate baking sheets with parchment paper before dotting them with perfectly uniform balls of dough she forms with an ice cream scoop. Mrs. McCall microwaves butter. "I'll come."

"But first, pancakes!" Scott plunks down onto the window seat next to Allison and kisses her cheek. They're still revoltingly adorable. "Admire my stove prowess!"

"They're edible," Stiles says, poking the charred one on his plate.

"Aww, man," Scott says. Allison pats him on the shoulder.

"It's progress! Maybe you'll be able to make waffles by the time your kids are in high school."

Scott gets this ridiculous, doe-eyed look on his face then, and Stiles knows what's coming even before Scott says it. "Allison is pregnant! We're having a baby!"

"Holy _crap_ ," Stiles says, spilling maple syrup on his hand, at the same time Allison is saying, "Hey, we were waiting for Christmas dinner! Christmas, Scott!"

"Whoops," Scott says, looking at Allison. After a moment, she leans in and kisses him. "Sorry, I just—Stiles!"

"Melissa doesn't know yet," Allison says. "Can you hold it in? Or are you going to break as soon as she interrogates you?"

Scott's mom was the first person who figured out that Stiles liked dudes as well as Lydia, including Stiles. She pulled him aside after the third time he made Scott sit through _Batman Begins_ that weekend and gently told him that it was okay and she thought Christian Bale was very attractive, too. Stiles takes a moment to consider Allison's question carefully. "I think so. I mean, I have other stuff I can confess to."

"My mom already knows about your drag show," Scott says. "She saw it on my Facebook wall."

Stiles facepalms, forgetting his hand is covered in maple syrup. "Seriously?"

"But she doesn't know that _you_ know that she knows," Allison points out. "You can work with that."

"I still can't believe that was you in a dress," Scott says. "You make a great Princess Leia, dude. Way better than the time you were Han Solo for Halloween."

"You were the wimpiest Luke Skywalker ever," Stiles points out. "It was tragic all around."

"Suddenly, every Halloween in our kid's future is playing out before my eyes," Allison says, prodding her pancake warily.

—

Mrs. McCall makes Stiles separate eggs for the lemon icing, even though he sucks at it. While his hands are full of eggshells and Scott and Allison are in the living room stringing popcorn and cranberries together, she leans in and says, "Spill, kid. You've got a guilty look."

"I didn't do anything!" Stiles pauses to fish an eggshell fragment out of the egg whites.

"I'm a mom, I know," she says.

"Scott told me that—I haven't said anything to my dad, but it's on YouTube and everything, I don't think he could google it, but…"

"Stiles." Scott's mom squeezes his shoulder. "You're really worried about that?"

Stiles wipes his eggy hands on a paper towel. "Look, the first time I tried to come out to him, Scott and I were at Jungle, with Danny, and it just… he didn't believe me? I mean, Dad loves José, I think he wants us to settle down and foster kittens or something. It's not that he's weird about it."

"José is great," she says. "Why isn't he coming out here this week?"

"His abuela is pretty hardcore about the whole 'Christmas is twelve days of family bonding and togetherness' thing." José's abuela is five feet tall, spent thirty years as a social worker in Oakland, and governs the Munoz family with a loving but iron fist. Stiles is maybe a little bit in love with her. She's the person who took the video of their Pride show with her flipcam; José's brother put it on YouTube. "I'm going back down on the second, so I'll be there for the Día de los Reyes party."

The timer on the oven goes off. Mrs. McCall takes the first tray of gingerbread out of the oven, sits it on the stove, and puts the next in its place. Stiles washes his hands and starts taking the lemon bar cookies off the cooling racks. They'll be fine hanging out on a plate while he attempts to whip up the icing.

After a few minutes, Mrs. McCall takes over the hand-mixer because the icing looks lumpy and terrified. "Are you ready to settle down and foster kittens?"

"I could settle down and still wear high heels on the weekends if I wanted to," Stiles says, the words out of his mouth before he really registers what he's saying. "José wants to join the Peace Corps when he graduates. So, I don't know. Not right now, I guess."

"Oh, honey," Scott's mom says. She sits down the mixer and gives him a hug.

—

Stiles texts José a photo of the cookie tin before he closes it up to bring home to his dad, and another of Allison and Scott waving hello. José responds with a photo of his mom's double fudge cake, which makes Stiles's mouth water even though he's eaten enough almond bark that he feels slightly nauseous. 

When he pulls into his driveway for the second time that day, he's greeted by the sight of Dad pulling the big orange ladder out of the garage. "Hey!" Stiles shouts, hopping out of the Jeep. "We had this talk ten years ago, _you_ had this talk with _me_! No putting up lights without a spotter!"

Dad sets the ladder against the side of the house and dusts his hands off on his jeans. "Son, you weren't putting up lights. You and Scott were climbing onto the roof at two in the morning. It warms my heart to know this is what you took away from that discussion, not using the big ladder without a spotter."

"Point stands." Stiles leans back against the hood of the Jeep. "So, who's going up on the ladder? You or me? Or should I call someone who's more likely to bounce back from a 20-foot drop onto concrete?"

"Stilinskis have always done this job and Stilinskis will always do this job, if I have anything to say about it." His dad smiles. "You take the ladder, I'll take the backseat driving."

There's enough multicolored lights to go across the front of the house, edge the garage, and leave one strand to round the front door. Stiles puts a sparkly wreath on the front door and walks out to the street to admire a job well done. His dad joins him, clapping Stiles on the back. They've done this thirteen times without Mom. 

"You want to decorate the tree?" Dad asks. "Or we could take a break and order pizza. Vegetarian pizza."

"Pizza sounds good," Stiles says. He's mostly recovered from the almond bark.

While they wait for the pizza, Stiles puts lights on the tree and starts unwrapping some of the more fragile ornaments. Christmas could be a time for sitting around and missing Mom, but she would have hated that. Instead, they've made some new traditions: watching _Die Hard_ on Christmas Eve, having the McCalls (the Argent-McCalls, now) over for Christmas dinner, and curating the acclaimed Star Wars Tree. The older ornaments are mostly models that Stiles carefully painted and assembled, but a lot of the newer ones are official merchandise. They crowned the tree with Princess Leia for the first few years, but when Scott got them a 12" Jar-Jar Binks action figure, Princess Leia was relegated to an honored position next to Han Solo in the branches. There is no way Mom would ever have let them put Jar-Jar Binks on the top of her tree.

They've hung all the TIE fighters and most of the smaller ornaments by the time Stiles's phone starts playing "Toxic" and vibrates its way off the coffee table.


	5. Chapter 5

Their decorator does the Christmas tree—it's different every year, this one is ivory and dark red and vintage Santa—and Lydia's not really into church, so her Christmas tradition with her mother has always been shopping. They used to start in November, but since she left home the date's been pushed back further and further until they're driving to the big mall in Sacramento on December 23. It's going to be mobbed, and her mother hates crowds even more than Lydia does.

Lydia glances over at her mother as they pulls into the parking space; they've lucked into one reasonably close to Neiman Marcus. "Who are we shopping for?" she asks. "Are we—I haven't gotten anything for Dad yet."

"We can take care of that," her mother says. She turns off the ignition. "I'm not mad at your father, Lydia. We just want different things."

Lydia grabs her purse and climbs out of the car. She doesn't know what her mother or father want. They're at the mall so she can buy them cashmere sweaters and jewelry on a credit card they pay for. "Fine," Lydia says. "Brooks Brothers it is."

They split up after Brooks Brothers so Lydia can shop for her mother on her own. She picks out a bracelet at Tiffany's this year, sterling silver with one dangling square-cut sapphire. Her mother likes simple and elegant; she's easy to shop for.

Lydia gets to their meeting spot by Sephora early, so she sits down on a bench to wait, holding her Tiffany's bag on her lap and sitting the one from Brooks Brothers next to her. Her parents' twenty-seventh anniversary is in four weeks. Normally she buys them a present for that, too, gets everything done in one fell swoop. Her parents both work in real estate—her dad's a developer, her mom's an agent—and they met when her father was developing the subdivision where they live now. They'll probably sell the house.

"There you are," her mother says, settling onto the bench next to her. She's carrying a large bag from Macy's. "Sorry, that took me longer than I thought."

"Who are you even shopping for?" Lydia says. "I'm the one who always puts this off to the last minute."

Her mother makes a face. "Your father asked me to pick up some towels and sheets for his new place while I was here. He bought a king instead of a California king, so we don't have any he can take with him."

"So… you bought him sheets."

"Of course," her mother says. "It's not like he has time. He's very busy."

"I know," Lydia says. "He'll have to hire a personal assistant."

"Well, he can do that on his own," her mother says.

Lydia looks down into the bag in her lap. One of the things she tells herself so she can sleep at night is that her life wouldn't have been any different without wolves, without Peter, without Allison. She's doing what she's always dreamed of, becoming a rising star in mathematics, but she's still within driving distance of home and completely unmoved by Tiffany blue. Allison probably doesn't even own anything from Tiffany's aside from the cake stand Lydia gave her and Scott for their wedding. Lydia didn't think they'd use champagne flutes.

Her mother touches Lydia's shoulder. "Aren't you going to get anything for your friends?"

"No, I'm good," she says. "Let's go home."

—

In the car, she has a flashback. They're never like she's read about or seen in movies: it's less her eyes remembering than her body, the ache of the bite, the hallucinatory brush of Peter's fingers over hers. Today she touches the place on her thigh where the second bite was. After Deaton sewed her up, it barely scarred; she still won't go swimming unless she's with someone who was there or she's alone. Stiles's scars are a lot worse.

Her mom is driving; she doesn't notice Lydia digging her nails into her thigh or pulling her phone out of her purse.

_Need you to come get me. I'll be home in 20._

_What's up???_

_Just come get me._

They're actually close enough that Stiles could meet Lydia there, but she needs to grab a few things before she leaves.

"Mom," she says, "I'm going out when I get back. I'll be home late, so don't wait up, okay?"

"Sure," her mother says.

—

Lydia throws her overnight bag into the Jeep's backseat and bangs her shin on the bottom of the door frame climbing in. "Fuck," she says. Her limbs are already loose and uncoordinated; Xanax always does this to her.

"Whoa, you _are_ too fucked up to drive." Stiles puts out a hand to steady her.

"Can I stay at your place?" she asks. "Just tonight. I can't—"

"Sure," Stiles says. "There's probably pizza by now. Aren't you supposed to take that stuff with food?"

"I think I'm still hungover, but I don't feel bad about it anymore." Lydia lets him help her with the seatbelt buckle after she fumbles it a few times.

Ten minutes later, she's sitting on the couch in Stiles's living room, eating Vegetarian Delight pizza and watching Stiles and his dad argue about the placement of Queen Amidala on the tree. 

"She doesn't go with Vader!" Stiles clutches Queen Amidala to his chest. "We've always put her next to Leia and Han, I don't see why that has to change now."

Stiles's dad rolls his eyes. "So Vader's going to be alone for the rest of his life, huh? Just Boba Fett for company?"

"I don't like where this conversation is going," Stiles says.

"It's a metaphor," Lydia explains helpfully.

"Do you want some more water, Lydia?" Stiles's dad asks. He abandons Queen Amidala to Stiles's tender mercies so that he can grab another slice of pizza. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good," she says, which isn't even a lie. Everything's kind of warm and floaty, Stiles's couch is ugly and incredibly comfortable, and the pizza is not bad. Listening to Stiles and his dad cite obscure Star Wars trivia and criticize each other's tree-decorating choices is kind of soothing.

"Do you want to take a nap? We can make up the guest room for you."

Lydia closes her eyes. "I like the couch. Can I stay on the couch?"

"Sure," Stiles's dad says, Stiles echoing him. "If you've got any feelings about ornament placement, feel free to weigh in any time."

"I think Queen Amidala should have her own tree," she says.

—

When Lydia wakes up again, it's full dark outside and someone's draped a blanket over her, probably the aesthetically offensive Giants throw that was on the back of the couch. The twinkling lights on the tree give the room in a dim glow. Lydia can hear Stiles and his dad in the kitchen, moving around, talking, laughing. She doesn't want to move, just linger in the dregs of drugged slumber as long as she can.

"…you think?" Stiles is saying.

"If that's what you want," Stiles's dad says. "I hear the market's pretty saturated right now, but you've got experience, you've got—you know stuff other people don't." 

Stiles sighs. "Mostly from maintaining the wiki at this point, but, yeah."

"Can't say I mind you leaving that stuff to Allison and Derek," his dad says mildly.

"Things aren't like they were when we were in high school," Stiles says. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that, talking about that ends in yelling, and there is no yelling on Christmas."

"It's not Christmas yet."

"It's Christmas Eve Eve, that counts."

"Stiles," Stiles's dad says.

"Dad," Stiles says. "We're not—I did what I had to do, we all did, I'm _not sorry_. I love you. Do we really need to fight about this again? Now?"

There's a long pause.

"I love you, son," Stiles's dad says. "No, we don't have to—no. It's okay."

Lydia drifts off again and misses the rest of the conversation.

—

When Lydia surfaces this time, it's to Stiles sitting next to her, watching a _How I Met Your Mother_ rerun. 

"I can't stand this show," she yawns. "Why are you watching it?"

"It was on," Stiles says, and then, "Hey, you're awake."

"Great deduction, Stilinski," she says, scooting over so she can rest her head in his lap.

"Want to watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ and eat Scott's mom's cookies?"

"Sure thing," Lydia says.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles and his dad have a routine for Christmas Eve, which goes something like this:  
—waffles  
—unpack the Nativity set Stiles's mom sculpted and painted  
—watch a lot of bad holiday movies  
—start prep for Christmas dinner  
—watch more bad holiday movies

They made a definitive ruling in favor of bad holiday movies after the year Stiles unwittingly rented both _Love Actually_ and _The Snowman_. This year, Stiles has curated a few favorites: _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_ , _The Search for Santa Paws_ , and of course _To Grandmother's House We Go_. Lydia will probably be equally horrified by all of those if she decides to stick around.

"What are Lydia's plans for the day?" Dad asks, checking on the waffles.

Stiles shrugs. "Not sure," he says. "I kind of didn't ask when I responded to the bat signal. I'm pretty sure she'll want breakfast, though."

"Okay." His dad comes over to the kitchen table to ruffle Stiles's hair. "If she needs—wants—a place to stay for the holidays, she can stick around here, you know."

Stiles hasn't really thought that far ahead; he's still in his pajamas. They're tartan and have glittery reindeer on them. "Thanks. I probably should have, uh, checked with you." 

"Plenty of room for three," his dad says. "Speaking of that, José's not coming up at all this year?"

"No, I told you already." Glossed over it, maybe, but Stiles was pretty sure he'd said _something_. "I'm going back down there after New Year's. His family's still doing Christmas then."

"Ah, that's right." His dad gives him a pat on the shoulder before he goes to answer the blinking summons of the waffle iron.

After everything that happened with the alphas, and his dad finding out, things between them were—well, tense missed the margin by a factor of about a million. There was a week or two of Dad trying to ground Stiles and Stiles leaving the house anyway, because, hello, _alpha pack_ , and a fight so awful that Stiles seriously considered moving in with Scott, but they smoothed things over eventually. "Smoothed" being the operative word there: they almost never talk about what happened before that fight and Dad picks his battles with care. If he's not pressing Stiles about José, there's something else he wants to talk about. That does not exactly put Stiles at ease.

"Hey," Lydia says from the doorway. "Do I smell…?"

"Waffles," Stiles says, relieved. "Stilinski tradition."

"I'll take one." Lydia sits down in the chair next to him, pulling her feet up underneath her. Her hair is in a sloppy ponytail and she's wearing floral pink pajama bottoms with an oversized Stanford t-shirt. Stiles used to think that beneath Lydia's armor, she'd be sweet and gentle, the lady to his gentleman. He's seen Lydia naked now, seen her covered in gore and dirt while she threw wolfsbane-laced smoke bombs into the midst of a fight. They're both her true face; it's not that simple.

"Coming right up," Dad says, putting plates in front of both of them. Stiles leaves the sugar-free syrup for his dad and coats his waffle with a hefty dose of the real thing and a dollop of Smart Balance: yum.

—

"You going home sometime, or you want to stick around here?" he asks Lydia after breakfast. They're in his room, wrapping presents. Lydia knit hats for everyone this year and Stiles made super dorky clay wolf ornaments, neither of which are particularly simple to wrap with paper.

Lydia frowns. "I should, I just—"

"You can stay, if you want, it's okay with my dad. Scott and Allison and Scott's mom and Chris are coming to dinner tomorrow, but aside from that, it's pretty chill here. We don't exactly have the fanciest accommodations—" Stiles shrugs, thinking of the saggy guest room mattress that Lydia slept on last night, "—but we do have a well-stocked kitchen and a lot of truly terrible Christmas movies."

"I have to get my car and my—my stuff." Lydia looks down at the hat in her hands. "I don't want to go back there."

"What happened?" he says, even though he knows that's the absolute worst way to get information out of Lydia. She hates feeling vulnerable and as they've gotten older, she's just gotten more stubborn and clam-y. Stiles knows it's better to wait her out, but sometimes he still fucks it up and pushes before she's ready.

Lydia shakes her head, mouth turned down, and goes back to wrapping. After a few minutes, she lifts her head to meet his eyes. "My parents are getting divorced. It's so stupid. I mean, it's not like I—they don't know anything about me. I go home because—it's where I go. I should want—but I—you and your dad, you're not like that." 

"No," Stiles says. His relationship with his dad is far from perfect, but if there was a werewolf zombie apocalypse, they've got wolfsbane bullets in the gun safe and a contingency plan. He's not sure what Lydia would do. Her parents' house is way too big, it would be pretty hard to secure.

Lydia reaches out to touch the scar on his left arm where it peeks out from the cuff of his sleeve. His right arm healed up fine, you can barely see it in most lights, but the left one got infected and there's a long white pucker that goes all the way up to his elbow. Stiles forgets about it most of the time. "Do you still feel it?" she asks. "Sometimes I—it didn't hurt at first." 

Those scars never bother him, although the one on his hip does, sometimes, enough that he knows what she means. "It hurt a lot," he says. "Maybe that's why it doesn't now."

"I don't want to go back to my parents' house," Lydia says.

—

Stiles goes downstairs to clean up from breakfast while Lydia calls her parents. Dad is still down there, reading the newspaper. He grunts when Stiles comes in and folds down the paper. "So?"

"So," Stiles says, "Lydia's going to hang out here for a few days, at least until the mattress scares her off."

"Should probably get a new mattress one of these days," his dad says. "Usually I just put Aunt Nora in your room."

Stiles is not the hugest fan of his great aunt, but, hey, he's not here that often, he can't really complain. "Well, maybe I'll be around more, if, you know, I get in."

"That would be good." His dad smiles. "Gets a little lonesome, doing the dishes for one."

"I can take a hint," Stiles grumbles, going over to the sink.

Doing the dishes is one of Stiles's secret grown-up pleasures: it's designated quiet time while he restores his physical world to order. He's always better able to concentrate when he's in motion, jiggling his leg or tapping his pen or scraping out his mother's cast iron frying pan and wiping it clean. Back when they were fighting for their lives all the time, he would achieve a previously unimaginable degree of focus in battle, able to hold his own with Lydia and Allison on Team Strategy and Badass Weapons. These days, his weapon is a sponge, but, hey, you can't have everything.

Not that he misses those days at all. Nope.

José calls while he's in the middle of loading the dishwasher, so Stiles wipes one hand dry and fishes his phone out of his pocket. "Happy Christmas Eve!" he says. "What's shaking?"

" _I can't tell whether that was a bad joke about the 4.2 in Santa Rosa last night or you actually consider that a legitimate avenue of inquiry_ ," José says.

"It's a thing. A thing that people say. One that I am sure that I have personally said before, to you, on multiple occasions." Stiles isn't really paying attention; he's trying to wedge the colander behind the salad bowl his dad used for the waffle batter, because his dad does not understand that salad goes in the salad bowl. "Wait, there was a 4.2? Did you feel it?"

" _Nah, I was asleep. I passed out on Molly's couch at movie night._ "

"Movie night," Stiles says regretfully. "You watched _Muppet Christmas Carol_ without me again, didn't you?"

" _You'll be back for_ Muppet Treasure Island _. And_ Grease."

 _Grease_ is how Stiles and José met two years ago; there was a showing at the Castro Theater and José spilled some of his soda on Stiles right next to the concession stand and Stiles dropped three packages of Red Vines he was holding. After the show, they got midnight breakfast at Orphan Andy's and found out they were in the same year at USF in two very different majors (José: performing arts; Stiles: a little bit of everything else). Six months later, they were moving in together, Stiles was fronting their drag troupe, and José was doing the choreography. 

" _Grease_ sounds good," Stiles agrees. "You want to say hi to my dad?"

—

They watch terrible movies while Stiles preps and parbakes the pie crusts, Lydia starts the dough for the yeast rolls, and Dad roasts the sweet potatoes for tomorrow's marshmallow-topped casserole. It's pretty nice.


	7. Chapter 7

When Lydia wakes up in the middle of Stiles's sad guest room mattress at 3 AM, she decides it's time for action. She takes Stiles's keys from where he dropped them on the kitchen table and leaves a note in their place. They can pick up her car later, but she wants to clear out her room now. Clean break.

Getting into the Jeep is always a chore, and it's been a few years since she's driven it. Her Mercedes is a manual, but changing gears is like cutting into butter, not trying to jam a key into a broken lock. Well, she'll survive. It's not as if the route between Stiles's dad's place and her parents' house has many stop signs or much traffic at this time of night. Lydia gets out of the driveway without hitting the mailbox, which she counts as a win.

("I don't want to spend Christmas at home," she said to her mother on the phone. "You and Dad don't need to fake it for me. Go to a spa or something. It's not like any of us want to be there."

"Are you sure?" her mother said.

"Yes," Lydia said. "I'll call Dad.")

No one's home when she gets to the house—her mother drove up to the house in Tahoe, her father's probably at his new apartment. It feels right. Lydia's not sure what's going to happen with her parents, but she's ready to say goodbye to this house.

—

When she comes downstairs in the morning, Stiles is lying on the couch and watching the parade on TV. "You slept forever," he complains. "DAD, POP TARTS NOW, I'M STARVING."

"Coming right up," his dad calls from the kitchen.

"Wait, are we seriously eating Pop Tarts for Christmas breakfast?" Lydia says.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Please, we are having a monster dinner in four hours and we still haven't opened any presents. Also, you took my Jeep in the middle of the night and went on a vigilante luggage retrieval mission?"

She shrugs. "You can't expect me to celebrate Christmas in pajamas or what I wore yesterday, Stiles. It's just not done."

"Riiiiiight," he says. "You didn't bring any presents to put under the tree?"

"Pop Tarts? Really?"

Surprisingly, they're not that bad. Lydia eats two whole s'mores and Stiles devours the rest while his dad looks on, sadly picking at a bowl of muesli. By the time Stiles puts on a Santa hat and gets down in front of the tree, he's practically vibrating with sugar and enthusiasm. 

"Santa Stiles says Lydia goes first, because she's our guest!" he crows, passing her a large rectangular box she doesn't remember seeing yesterday.

The box is fairly heavy; Lydia tests the heft quickly before she unwraps it, carefully undoing the tape at the ends and skirting her finger across the seam on the bottom, where the paper tears a little. "You bought me an inkjet printer? I'm touched."

"Keep unwrapping," Stiles says. "It gets better!"

Inside the printer box is a bunch of tissue paper and… sequins? Lydia tugs everything out of the box, letting it drop by her feet, and the quilt spills out over her lap. It's old t-shirts and evening gowns and metallic lamé, pieced together in no particular order, more than large enough to cover the full bed she has in her apartment. "Holy shit," she says. "What the hell, Stiles?"

Stiles's smile dims a little. "I started working on it at quilting circle, and it just… grew. And I thought you would like it. That's all."

"No, no, I mean—" she gestures to the quilt, this big, beautiful, glittering thing on her lap, spilling over her legs. "This is _incredible_ , Stiles, it's gorgeous. I can't believe—why aren't you keeping it? For yourself?"

"I don't like to make stuff for myself," he says, scratching at the back of his neck. "You like it? Really?"

"It's perfect," she says, and her voice doesn't come out funny at all.

"Okay," Stiles says, grinning again. "Dad, you're up next! What _could_ this mysteriously lumpy package hold?"

Stiles and his Dad give each other boring things, like underwear and socks and blenders, with a few moments of interest provided by new Star Wars ornaments and a collector's edition _Futurama_ box set (to Stiles from Santa, a.k.a. his dad, Lydia's not that twee) which prompts Stiles to roll around the rug, embracing his DVDs and calling them "baby." Stiles puts on the Jayne hat that Lydia knit him as soon as he opens the package and professes his intent to wear it all day. Half an hour later, Stiles and his dad are back in the kitchen and Lydia's still lazing on the couch under her quilt, thinking about picking up all the shredded wrapping paper on the floor but not quite motivated enough to do it.

The quilt is a medium weight that will be fine on her bed year-round, although doesn't match any of the decor in her room: Lydia's a big fan of brown and blush pink right now, but she can work around that. There's hot pink sequins crowding up against virulent yellow cotton jersey (BEACON HILLS MATHCOUNTS 2006) and chartreuse satin with silver beading. It's cacophonous and loud and so _Stiles_.

Speak of the devil. "Hey, Scott and Allison are on their way over." Stiles waves an oven mitt in front of her face. "Can you clean up in here and set the table?"

"Sure thing," she says, getting to her feet. She folds the quilt neatly and drapes it over the arm of the couch. "Are you going to get dressed?"

Stiles looks down at his pajamas—they're purple today, with ice-skating penguins—and then back at her. "It's _Christmas_ , Lydia," he says. "I mean, Mrs. McCall's coming over, so maybe. Last year I forgot."

"Where do you find these pajamas?" Lydia says. "That's what I want to know."

"I left you a trash bag next to the couch," he calls over his shoulder.

—

Scott and Allison arrive first, all smiles and presents and casserole dishes. Allison heads straight for the kitchen with a wave, so Lydia lets Scott greet her first, enfolding her in a big hug. "Lydia!" he says, pulling back. "I can't believe you're here for Christmas, that's so awesome! Did Stiles have to bribe you to share your awesomeness? Do you like gingerbread? Because Allison made this—"

"Hey," Allison says as she comes around the corner. She's hugging Lydia before Lydia can prepare herself for it, the way Allison's body still feels so familiar even in just this quick press. "It's so good to see you! I'm so happy you're here, this is like _my_ Christmas present. Did you have breakfast with your parents already, or do you want to spoil your appetite? The gingerbread pudding turned out amazing."

"Breakfast was roughly equivalent to having simple syrup pumped into my veins, so I think I'll pass for now." Lydia smiles tightly.

"Can I have some?" Stiles's dad asks, leaning out from the kitchen.

"NO," Stiles shouts.

Then Scott's mom is at the door with another tin of cookies, and a little after that, there's Allison's dad carrying a cake. Lydia hasn't been to a Christmas dinner like this since she was little—her father's parents were dead by the time she was born and her mother's family is all in Connecticut. It's so strange, it feels more like a movie than the real thing, even though she's surrounded by people she knows in a house she's visited many times. She ends up fussing over the sitting arrangements in the dining room and folding the napkins into swans because she can while everyone else mills in the kitchen.

Allison comes in after a few minutes, touching Lydia's arm softly just above the elbow to get her attention. "How are you doing? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"I was just here in June," Lydia says, pausing with a napkin still in hand. "Not that long ago."

"Yeah, I know. I can't believe you painted the spare room all by yourself, geez. Never thought I'd see you with paint on your nose. You _liked_ it."

Lydia rolls her eyes. "One time is not a statistically significant indicator of my aesthetic or recreational preferences."

"It looks great." Allison pokes her shoulder. "You did a great job."

Lydia smiles for real this time. She can't help it; Allison's always done this to her. From the moment she laid eyes on her, she wanted Allison to be her friend, she wanted to know Allison, just—wanted her. Allison is sweet and loving and righteous and terrible by turns, the kind of person who can hold the territory of Beacon Hills peacefully with a circle of wolves at her back and still snort-laugh her way through _Wayne's World_ every time she watches it with Scott. How could Lydia not love Allison, jealously and helplessly? 

"I missed you," Allison says into the silence. "I always miss you. I mean, I get—it's okay. I know it's weird for you."

"Yeah," Lydia acknowledges, dipping her head. 

"I'm glad you came, though," Allison says. "You're like a sister to me. I'm so glad you're here."

—

The thing with Allison happened while she was broken up with Scott. It started after Jackson's parents sent him to a prep school with a good lacrosse team and it ended the night Scott tore Peter Hale in half and laid the pieces at Lydia's feet. Lydia would love to hate Scott, but she can't: he's good and kind and he makes Allison happy, makes Allison's face light up like nothing ever did in those long months she and Lydia were—whatever they were. Touching each other in the bed where Allison's mother killed herself, kissing on the back porch where Peter had never been, doing the human equivalent of marking their territory. 

Lydia still can't quite believe it, that they survived all of it, that everyone finished high school and went on to live their lives and the weirdest part of it all is being at Christmas dinner with Allison and her dad. Sometimes what happened seems like a terrible dream that Lydia only knows is true because of how Skye absently tugs up her elbow-length evening gloves before she goes on stage and Lydia herself always wears leggings under her dresses. Most of the time, she's able to forget about it, but when she comes back to Beacon Hills the world takes on a surreal quality, like maybe her own life is the dream.

When they sit down at the table, Stiles maneuvers things so she's sitting next to him and across from Scott, who's grinning loopily at everyone in that way of his. Derek might be the born werewolf among them, but Scott's definitely the most puppy-like. His mood is infectious; Stiles is smiling right back, and he squeezes Lydia's hand under the table.

"Hey, before we eat, Scott and I have a big announcement," Allison says. "We're having a baby!"

The rest of the table explodes into delighted squeals and congratulations, and Lydia can't breathe. The only thing anchoring her is Stiles's hand in hers, gripping her tightly even as he joins in on the excitement. "That's wonderful," Lydia says, because she has to say something. "I'm so happy for you guys."

Allison gives her this look, this loving, knowing look, and Lydia can already see how things will be be, how Allison will turn this look on her kid because that's just Allison, who's so warm and generous and wise.

There's honey-baked ham and sweet potato casserole and green beans on her plate and they all taste like nothing.

—

Lydia pleads a headache to get out of the gift exchange and gives everyone hugs "just in case" she falls asleep. She takes her quilt upstairs with her and hesitates in the hallway before she goes into Stiles's room. It's weird being here without him, like she's fallen into some temporal black hole that's taken her back to a time when Stiles's greatest passions were WoW and supernatural research, and wouldn't that be nice.

As she suspected, Stiles's mattress is a lot firmer than hers. Lydia lies down on his bed and curls up under her quilt, buries her face in Stiles's pillow. Nothing much has ever happened in the wake of the two bites that didn't take, but sometimes her sense of smell seems stronger: she couldn't name his shampoo or his aftershave, but she can always pin down the familiar scent that's Stiles. It's comforting.

She wasn't expecting to actually fall asleep, but the next thing she knows, Stiles is sitting down next to her, touching her shoulder. "Hey, Lydia," he says. "Everybody went home. I figured you probably didn't want to be around for that part."

"Is Full Moon open on Christmas?" she asks muzzily. "Can we get drunk?"

"That is not a good solution to your problems."

Lydia rolls over and finds Stiles's hip right next to her face. She presses her cheek against him. "Scott probably wants you to be the godfather."

"They don't really do church? But the werewolf equivalent, yeah."

"Are you going to come home?" She doesn't mean to say it, really, but she needs to know the answer. To prepare herself.

"I'm applying to the library science program at Davis. So, maybe," he says.

"I hate everything," Lydia says. 

It's stupid to be messed up about it; it's not like she sees Stiles more than once or twice a month, it's not even like they really have that much in common, except what they do. Lydia's never going to get away from this fucking town, even as it runs away from her, straight on into the future and away from what everyone else seems to have forgotten about. Maybe it's easier if your wounds heal into soft, unbroken skin.

Stiles shifts to lie down next to her, his face close enough to her that their noses almost brush. "I didn't think you'd be upset. I mean, I'm finally, like, being a grown up, not fucking around, you know what I mean."

"You aren't—you weren't fucking around," she says. "You're _happy_. All of you are, and it's so stupid, I don't even know what's wrong with me that I can't get over it."

"You don't get over it," he says flatly. It feels like they've had this conversation before. "Do you think I'm—look, it's just, time goes on, and you figure out how to deal. There's like half my life my dad doesn't know about and it's not even werewolves anymore, it's something good, but I don't even know how to share that. Why do you think no one from Beacon Hills ever comes down for my shows? It's not like they're _judging_. Well, except for Danny, Danny's totally judging."

Danny lives in Millbrae; he's CTO of a stealth startup that he's never adequately explained to Lydia. They meet up at trendy wine bars in San Francisco a few times a year. "He's judging," Lydia agrees.

"Danny can't deal with the Castro because there are too many naked bears in Birkenstocks," Stiles says. "I don't really care about his opinion."

Lydia snorts.

They're quiet for a while; Stiles's breathing slows like he's headed toward sleep.

"Do you mind if I stay here?" Lydia asks. "I mean, your guest mattress is really terrible. Awful."

"Is this Lydia code for 'I have emotional issues and I don't want to be alone and I don't want to talk about it'?"

"You're an asshole," she says, reaching down to pull the quilt over both of them before she turns to face away from Stiles.

After a moment, Stiles throws an arm around her and pulls her closer. He's skinny enough that Lydia always forgets how _big_ he is; spooning, he's like another huge blanket wrapped around her. It makes her feel safe and a little overwhelmed all at once. "Is this okay?" he says. "I mean, I don't want to—"

"Shut up." She pauses. "That means okay."

Stiles shifts behind her. "If I pop a reflexive boner, you have to promise not to kill me. It's not every day I get to have the girl of my dreams in my bed."

"I'm going to kill you if you don't shut up now," she says, smiling.

  
  
[[see full size at DeviantArt]](http://caristia.deviantart.com/art/The-Quilt-343703049)   



	8. Chapter 8

Stiles thinks he's dreaming for a few minutes after he wakes up. He hasn't had one of these dreams for a few years; they always leave him feeling unsettled and guilty, because he loves Lydia, but he really doesn't think about her like that anymore. He's curled up around her now, though, nose buried in her strawberry-blonde curls, arm snug under the curve of her breasts, holding her tight against him. Abruptly, he wakes all the way up, because no, no, morning wood, _mission abort_ , this is not cool. He scrambles back far enough that he almost falls over the edge of the bed and spends a few seconds flailing. Ten out of ten for style, Stilinski.

Miraculously, Lydia doesn't wake up, so he carefully tucks her in under the quilt— _be brilliant_ —and retreats to take a cold shower. He can't even jerk off, that's how much he's going to hell. Shivering, he pulls on sweatpants and an old Avengers t-shirt before he makes his way downstairs for coffee. So much coffee.

Dad's already there, scowling at a bowl of oatmeal. Stiles gives him a wave and makes for the cabinet with the mugs. Mom's cat mug! Already, he feels better. There can be no awkward boners while he's drinking out of his mom's cat mug, especially now that he's a totally mature adult. Right. 

"So, you and Lydia?" his dad says. 

Stiles chokes on his coffee. "Oh my god, _no_ , it is _not like that_." It's like his dad has special radar for whenever Stiles is feeling embarrassed. "Lydia—no! And I have a boyfriend!"

Dad raises an eyebrow, but he's smiling. "Just checking. Noticed she wasn't in the guest room, that's all."

"That mattress is terrible," Stiles says, relieved. "Absolutely terrible. It's a crime. We should replace it immediately. Because you have so many guests, lots of guests!"

"Guess you'll be coming up more now, because of Scott's kid, huh?" 

"That, too," he says. "Still hoping for Davis."

His dad clears his throat and comes over to stand next to Stiles, who's still leaning against the counter by the coffee maker. "I know you've got your own life down in San Francisco, son," he says. "I've missed you, though. I thought—I don't understand why you feel like you have to hide things from me. You're my kid. You don't have to protect me."

"Do you even hear yourself? That is exactly why—" Stiles sits the cat mug down on the counter. He doesn't want to bring Mom into this. "Look, I can't do this, I'm not doing this, I told you, it's Christmas. I didn't come home so we could have this stupid fight again."

"What exactly does this have to do with Mulan, Stiles?" his dad asks.

Stiles jerks his head up and almost brains himself on the refrigerator behind him. "What?"

"'When will my reflection show who I am inside?'"

It takes Stiles some time to process that. " _Dad,_ " he says. "How did you—what the hell?"

"It took me a minute to figure out which one of you was José," his dad says. "Didn't have too much trouble with the six-foot Princess Leia in platform boots, though. I wonder why."

"Oh my god," Stiles says again, scrubbing a hand over his face. "This was not how I planned to—Mulan was José's idea! Not mine!"

"Melissa sent me a link a while ago. I kept waiting for you to bring it up, but you never did." Dad frowns at him. "Did you think I'd be upset? I'm the one who took those photos of you in your mom's high heels, after all."

Stiles whimpers. "I thought we got rid of those."

"No, I saved them so I'd be able to torment you in front of my grandchildren, as my father did before me," his dad says. "Admittedly, your grandpa didn't have quite as much ammunition."

"I can't follow this conversation anymore, _I don't know what's happening_ ," Stiles says. "I don't have to protect you from… showing your nonexistent grandchildren photos of me in drag when I was two? Maybe I'm protecting myself, okay."

His dad sighs. "I just want to know what's going on with you, Stiles. I care about you, so I—I wish you wouldn't decide how I'd feel about something instead of telling me about it and finding out for yourself."

"I don't even know what's going on with me half the time," Stiles says, topping off his mug with coffee. "That's not fair." He starts edging toward the doorway.

He's almost there when his dad says, "You should sing me one of those songs. The audio isn't so great on the recording."

It's a good thing that Stiles has so much experience with thinking on his feet in a crisis (thanks, werewolves), because he manages a totally smooth, "I don't perform out of costume."

"It's just a little song-and-dance for your old man, you're not going on stage."

"You don't get it, it doesn't _work_ like that," Stiles says. 

"Tell me how it works, then." His dad's voice is gentle and earnest, and Stiles—wants to.

Stiles closes his eyes and keeps his hands wrapped around the cat mug. He thinks about the first time he ever put on a dress as an adult, for a party his first semester of college; it was too narrow around the knees and too short in the torso and his shoulders were itchy with the body glitter Lauryn had dusted all over both of them. "It's not like I put on a dress and go sing Disney songs," he says slowly. "When I dress up, I'm Skye. It's more of a cape-in-the-phone-booth thing. A dress-in-the-phone-booth thing."

"Superwoman?"

"I'm not a superhero." Stiles shakes his head. "It's just—easier to be me when I get to be her sometimes, too."

"Okay," his dad says. "I think I understand that."

—

Stiles leaves a note for Lydia when they head for the cemetery. When they get back an hour later, she's in the kitchen making hot chocolate on the stove. Her hair's pulled back into a sloppy braid and she's wearing Stiles's last clean pair of pajamas, the yellow ones with angry bees on them; they're rolled up at least twice at the wrists and the ankle. It's like she's deliberately aiming for the uncanny valley between HOT and NO.

"You _love_ me," Stiles says, focusing on the hot chocolate.

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Get over yourself, Stiles. Oh, hi, Mr. Stilinski."

"Is that hot chocolate I smell?" his dad says as he closes the back door. "I think Melissa left some whipped cream in the fridge last night."

"Hot chocolate with _real whipped cream_." Stiles goes to wash out the cat mug in a rapturous haze.

Dad has to go into work, so he takes his serving in a travel mug. Stiles ends up sitting on the couch with Lydia, flipping through the latest on Boing Boing on his phone while she looks through an old copy of National Geographic that's been collecting dust under the coffee table for a while. 

"I'm going to Jackson's parents' place for the rest of the week," she says after a few minutes. "They're in Aruba. Danny invited me over."

"Well, if you want hot tubs and fancy mattresses, Jackson's house is probably the place to be," Stiles says. "Did I—did I do—"

Lydia pokes him in the side, right where he's ticklish. "No, don't be stupid. It's just—a lot, and you're very intense, Stiles. You want to fix everything, that's just how you are. Right now, I just want someone to get sushi delivered and rub my feet and watch _The Notebook_ with me, and I've put plenty of time and effort into training Jackson that I don't intend to waste."

" _The Notebook_ is awful," Stiles says, appalled. "Not even Ryan Gosling could redeem that."

"See?" she says. "And you have that thing about sushi."

"That thing where it's gross?" Stiles wrinkles his nose.

Lydia reaches over and pats his arm. "I'll see you at the bonfire. If you attempt to eat an entire blooming onion on your own, have Erica take pictures."

"…oh, that is so not a good plan," Stiles says.


	9. Chapter 9

They started doing the bonfire during their senior year of high school. It was Erica's idea. Lydia thought it was kind of juvenile—please, sneaking off into the woods for a midnight campout on New Year's Eve—and also that fire and the Hale property sounded like a really terrible mix, but Derek okayed it. 

"It's not going to be weird for you?" she said to him after the pack meeting.

Derek shrugged. "They don't smell the same," he said.

That was another thing that happened their senior year of high school, Lydia talking to Derek sometimes. He was the wolf alpha and she was the human alpha, it made sense for them to coordinate. (Stiles didn't like Lydia calling herself that, but he didn't deny it, either.) None of them knew yet that the threat was over, that Allison had done more for the pack in one night than any of the wolves had in a year by killing two alphas while Derek took care of the third. Their skulls are still on posts at the borders of Hale territory. No one's tried trespassing in years.

Derek is the first person Lydia sees when she climbs out of the passenger side of Stiles's Jeep. He's wedging kindling beneath the logs in the cold pit, fiddling with the arrangement, probably waiting for Stiles. Behind him, she sees Isaac and Boyd's wife Haiping, heads bowed in conversation, and Erica, who gives her a wave. Boyd's probably still shutting down the kitchen and turning Full Moon over to the human staff for tonight.

"Hey, hey." Stiles clambers past her, a six pack of PBR dangling from his fingers. He pokes Derek in the shoulder when he gets to the fire pit. "Stop messing with that, it's not the Eiffel Tower. You're going to give the fire bad juju."

"You can't give a fire bad juju," Derek says, sitting back on his heels. "I don't even—no, Stiles."

Stiles drops the PBR by one of the big logs ringing the fire pit and rubs his hands together. "You got a stick?" he says.

Wordless, Derek hands one over.

Lydia takes the fleece blanket that lives in the back of the Jeep and spreads it over the log Stiles has taken before she sits down. She has rum and mulled cider in her thermos; no beer for her. It's too cold out, and out of a can? Gross. She digs the thermos out of her backpack and takes a sip. Stiles is still carefully drawing a circle in the dirt around the pit, leaving a small gap so that he can light the fire when he's done. This was Lydia's compromise when they started doing this six years ago, in the name of fire safety. It doesn't feel like much of a compromise anymore.

Stiles throws a match through the gap and waits for the kindling to catch before he pushes at the air with his hand and the fire steadily begins to climb. Then he pulls back and closes the circle with the stick. "Still got it!" he says with a whoop of satisfaction.

"Congratulations," Derek says. He steals a can of PBR.

Lydia's so focused on the fire, she doesn't notice Erica until Erica's already sitting down next to her. "Hey," Erica says, draping an arm around Lydia's shoulders. "Haven't seen you around much. Stiles was hanging out with us all by his lonesome all week, poor baby."

"I saw the photos," she says. "Scott was there the other night egging him into poor life choices with fried food."

"Stiles doesn't need any help making poor life choices," Erica says fondly. 

It's cold enough in Beacon Hills this time of year that all of the humans end up pairing off with a wolf buddy by the end of the night. Usually, Lydia and Stiles stick together while Isaac and Erica flank them. Lydia's not a cuddler by nature, but she doesn't mind using Isaac as a blanket: he's snuggly and always keeps his hands out of the bad touch zones. Plus, it's always entertaining to watch Erica creep over Stiles until he's annoyed but not uncomfortable enough to protest. José thought it was pretty hilarious last year, although he did end up crawling between the two of them when Stiles started making horrified squawking noises.

Lydia's never had that kind of attention from Erica herself, although Erica flirts with almost everyone aggressively and often. Even now, she's got an arm around Lydia but she hasn't gotten that close, waiting for Lydia to commit.

"Get over here." Lydia puts an arm around Erica's waist and reels her in. "It's fucking freezing."

"Are you claiming me?" Erica says, low and hungry in Lydia's ear. She doesn't talk like that to Stiles.

"Sure," Lydia says. Why not? She's due for a change.

—

Scott and Allison show up around the same time as Boyd, lugging a huge thermos full of regular coffee and a small one with decaf. "For those who wish to stay up all night," Allison says, passing around paper cups and compostable lids, "and those who are not allowed caffeine for another six months."

"I have creamer and sugar!" Scott holds up a quart of half-and-half and a bag of assorted sugar and sweetener packets.

"Praise Jesus," Boyd says, taking the big thermos from Allison.

Stiles takes a big cup of coffee, black, back with him to their log, and leans against Lydia's free side. "This is my favorite night of the year," he says. "I always forget that until I'm here."

"What about Pride Friday?" Lydia says, reaching down for her cider.

"Can there be a tie? I'm calling a tie. I have too many favorites." Stiles puts an arm around Lydia's waist, and Erica moves her arm down so he can rest his head on Lydia's shoulder. "I love you all. I'm not even drunk yet."

"Am I supposed to be sober enough to drive home in the morning?" Lydia says.

"It's your turn," Stiles says. "Scott drove me home the other night, but that was mostly because I was afraid I was going to puke."

"I can't believe you ate three quarters of that fucking onion."

"It was mostly the tequila," Erica says. "He had a lot of tequila."

Lydia shakes her head softly so that she doesn't jar Stiles. This isn't her favorite night every year, but she's not sure she has a favorite. Whatever problem Stiles has, she has the opposite. She's feeling okay right now, though, with Stiles leaning on her and Erica wrapped around her; it's like they're pushing all her thoughts out of her head to make room for themselves. She's cozy and empty, not spaced out like she gets on Xanax. Werewolf benzos: someone should patent this.

Allison and Scott come over with the coffee and cream. Lydia holds up her thermos and Erica shakes her head. "I'll pass," she says.

"Is that cider?" Allison looks envious. "You have no idea how much I miss drinking right now. And coffee. None."

"Yeah, I can't imagine," Lydia says.

"She's so noble." Scott kisses Allison's forehead. "Normally she gets a triple venti skinny vanilla latte every morning before class, and now she's facing teenagers and Shakespeare at 7 AM with just a decaf venti Americano under her belt. I don't know how she does it."

"I don't know how you remember those drink orders," Stiles says. "You're ridiculous, dude."

"It's not that hard," Erica says. "You know, I used to memorize epic poetry when I was in middle school and had no friends, just for shits and giggles. I can still do the first hundred lines of the _Iliad_ , no problem. Some guy tipped me fifty bucks for that last week."

"Impressive," Lydia says despite herself.

Erica's fingers slide over her thigh. "Thanks."

"I wish my seventh graders had that kind of initiative," Allison says. "You know what they say, 'when I was your age, I walked five miles to school in the morning, in the snow, before I walked five miles home and did two hours of archery practice…'"

"'Killed some monsters…'" Lydia says.

"'Did Scott's homework…'" Stiles says.

"Hey, that's not fair!" Scott says. "I mean, I'm pretty sure that's a time honored tradition of kids everywhere, doing their best buddy's homework."

Stiles raises his hand and they fistbump. Lydia does not get them, but whatever. _She_ never did anyone's homework. Not even Jackson's, not even when he asked very nicely.

Jackson doesn't come to the bonfire; neither does Danny. He's part of a pack up by Seattle and Danny never took the bite. Lydia's pretty sure she's the only one who sees them outside of accidental run-ins when they're back in Beacon Hills. Maybe that's how it'll be if—when—she leaves northern California after she finishes her PhD. 

Stiles buries his nose in her neck. "I'm cooooooold," he whines. "You stole Erica and Haiping stole Isaac _and_ Boyd."

Lydia lifts her head to glance at the three of them, cuddled up on the other side of the fire. Boyd's got Haiping tucked under his arm and Isaac's at their feet, his arms wrapped around Haiping's legs. They're adorable. Lydia hasn't been around to follow the whole progression of Isaac moving into Boyd's house and letting Derek and Erica take over the mortgage on his old place, but the three of them have been living together for two years now. At first, Lydia thought they might be fucking, but she's not so sure now; Isaac doesn't really seem interested in anyone that way. 

"You steal Derek," Lydia says. "I'm not sharing, and Derek's doing that thing where he stares into the fire and broods about how he's forever alone and also how the circle means he can't make s'mores."

"I can hear you," Derek says. "I'm not the one who's always complaining about s'mores."

"You can make them!" Stiles says. They have this argument every year. "You just can't _light them on fire_. Fire cannot come through the circle. If you fuck up, you have to throw the whole stick in."

"They don't taste good if you don't light them on fire," Haiping says. Isaac and Boyd waggle consensus fingers.

"I didn't bring s'mores supplies this year," Allison says. She and Scott are settling onto their own log right now; Scott even brought a pillow for her to sit on. "Cut it out, guys. Derek, go cuddle, you're brooding."

"Why do you listen to _her_?" Stiles says when Derek crowds in on his end of the log.

"Allison is the voice of reason," Derek says. He's mellowed a lot over the years. "Also, you brought the beer."

"You can't even get drunk." Stiles scoots the cans under his legs. "It's not fair for you to steal my beer."

"First rule of the bonfire is that you have to share."

"WRONG. First rule of the bonfire is outside of the magic circle, _no lighting shit on fire_. Right, Lydia?"

"Correct," Lydia says.

"And the second rule is we don't talk about _Fight Club_ ," Stiles says.

"That's not funny," Derek says.

"No, that's because you and Scott always argue about _Fight Club_ for five hours if you get started," Erica says. "It's like Lydia and _The Notebook_."

"I'm not saying it's a good film, I'm just saying that what it does, it does well," Lydia says.

"No," Erica says, pulling Lydia a little tighter. "Stop while you're ahead. Please."

Derek's hand brushes Lydia's side as he puts his arm around Stiles. "Third rule is that you have to share, then," he says.

"Fine," Lydia concedes.

—

There are more than three rules, and the rules are more like guidelines. Someone makes up a new one every year, and sometimes they stick. No guests (except for José last year and Haiping, who was already on her way to becoming a permanent fixture by then). No hoarding the marshmallows (yes, Scott, even if you brought them). No arguing about lighting shit on fire (ha, ha, ha). One of the tacit ones that everyone honors is no talking about it if people peel off from the group to go fuck in the woods. Usually, that leaves Lydia, Stiles, Derek, Isaac, and Erica around the fire, falling asleep on each other or quietly chatting until the others come back sometime before sunrise.

This year, Erica tugs at her waist a little after Scott and Allison wander off. "Hey," she says, "Do you…?"

Lydia turns her head to meet Erica's eyes. "Okay," she says. "Yeah. Let's."


	10. Chapter 10

So, Lydia and Erica are off in the woods banging, that's a little unusual. Stiles makes a face ridiculous enough to make Derek chuckle, but he doesn't _say_ anything, because wolves, super hearing, and also, _Lydia_. If there's anyone who needs a little casual werewolf sex in her life, it's Lydia. At this point, Stiles is the only human here who _hasn't_ partaken of the ample supply of hot, available werewolves in Beacon Hills. 

"Do I want to know what you're thinking?" Derek says. "When you're quiet, that's not usually good."

"I'm _trying_ to be _supportive_ ," Stiles whispers loudly. He thinks he can hear Erica laughing. "I can do tact. I'm working on it."

"Hey," Isaac says, coming over to take Lydia's place and probably to bogart her mulled cider. Stiles kicks her thermos behind the PBR for safety. "So, we've all seen the video of you singing Disney songs in a dress, because Scott doesn't understand Facebook privacy settings."

"I haven't seen the video. I don't have Facebook," Derek says.

"Except for Derek," Isaac says. He slings his arm around Stiles's waist. "Who is missing out, because it's great. Didn't know you had it in you."

"José did the choreography." It's weird; Stiles didn't realize how nervous he was about how everyone would react. The relief is kind of overwhelming. "I just show up and look pretty. Molly's in charge of wardrobe now."

"Molly's the one who was green?"

"Molly Ficent," Stiles says. "None of the princesses were wicked enough for her."

"Which one is José supposed to be?" Isaac says.

Stiles grins. "He's been LeDeanna Tramp since high school, and LeDeanna is totally a princess, she is the most princessy princess there is, okay. Even more than Ariel."

"And which one are you?" Derek says.

"Princess Leia," Stiles says. "But I go by Skye. Skye Walker."

Derek groans. "These are the worst puns I have ever heard."

"No, no, wait for it! Ariel's full name is _Ariel Woman_."

"Wow," Isaac says. "I'm honestly impressed."

"Impressed is one word for it," Derek says.

Stiles elbows him. "Hey, hey, no hating. I've just shared something important and precious with you guys, I'm all vulnerable and stuff."

"You are worse than Erica," Derek says, but he doesn't attempt any elbow retribution.

"You should invite us next time you have a show," Isaac says. "We miss you."

Now Stiles _does_ feel all vulnerable and stuff. "I didn't—I've been away a long time," he says slowly. "You guys all grew up to be, like, normal people—wolves—wolf-people, whatever. Scott and Allison are having a baby, you and Haiping and Boyd have some kind of consensus-based domestic agreement, Derek—you're doing something normal, right?"

"I'm applying to vet schools," Derek says.

"That's pretty normal," Stiles says. "Wait— _vet_ school?"

Derek half-shrugs. "Deaton's idea. I've been taking classes at the community college to fulfill the science prereqs."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you were an _English_ major."

"Comparative literature."

"Because that's _so_ different." Stiles pauses. "I'm applying to library science programs, because that's apparently what you do with a BA in art history and chemistry if you're not going into art restoration."

"You're going to be Willow _and_ Giles," Isaac says approvingly.

Stiles claps him on the back. "Right you are, padawan."

"We could use a Giles," Derek says.

Isaac leans his head on Stiles's shoulder, and Derek leans in after a moment, too. They're so warm that Stiles is starting to feel sleepy, sleepy and loved and safe. Stiles wishes José were here, like last year, that Stiles could enfold him in everything he loves about Beacon Hills and his friends, his pack, could share all the things that keep him tethered here. Sitting around the fire, waiting for sunrise; it feels so right.

"You guys can have some of the PBR," Stiles says, feeling generous. "But leave me one, and don't touch Lydia's cider."

"If she doesn't want it, she shouldn't leave it unattended," Isaac says, but he takes the can Derek hands him.

—

Over what remains of the fire, Boyd cooks huge quantities of hashbrowns, scrambled eggs, and bacon for breakfast, which Stiles chases with tragically cold coffee. Beside him, Lydia's delicately prodding at her eggs and sipping at her cider. Her cheeks are pink and her hair is rumpled. She looks happy.

"Are you going to crash at my place again tonight?" Stiles asks her.

"If you don't mind," she says. "We could get on the road earlier tomorrow, probably make better time."

"Does better time translate to In 'N' Out on the way back?"

"Ugh, if you _insist_."

Scott plunks down on Stiles's other side and balances his plate on his knees. "You guys should come over for dinner tonight."

Stiles looks over to Lydia, who shrugs. "I promised my mom I'd see her again before I leave, but you should go."

"Sounds good." Stiles tilts back his head and looks up at the sky, at the first blush of red that's still stretching up from the horizon, the first sunrise of the new year. "Hey, I love you guys."

"You, too, dude," Scott says through a mouthful of hashbrowns.

"Did you actually manage to get drunk this year?" Lydia says.

"Shut up," Stiles says, bumping his shoulder against hers.


	11. Chapter 11

**june**

  
Molly is helping LeDeanna with her eyelashes and Skye is freaking out.

"Oh my god, this was a terrible idea," she says, grabbing Lydia's shoulders. "Why did you all convince me it was a good idea? Is my _dad_ out there?"

"I didn't convince you of anything," Lydia says. "And I didn't see your dad, but Scott's mom is saving both of us seats. I think Haiping and Isaac are here, too."

Skye's eyes go even wider. " _Mrs. McCall_ is here?"

"Apparently, she's present on Scott and Allison's behalf." Scott and Allison are at home with Allison Victoria Argent-McCall, Jr., who is four days old. According to Stiles, she's very cute; Allie just looks like a baby to Lydia, pink with a light dusting of dark hair on her head. "They say to break a leg."

"Hey, calm down," LeDeanna says, reaching out to tug Skye's skirt. "It's going to be okay. If you need to escape, we can sic my abuela on them."

"Okay, okay." Skye takes a deep breath. "I can do this. We were awesome last year. We're going to be awesome this year. That's how it's going to go down."

Molly pats LeDeanna on the cheek and stands up. "Laying on of hands!" she says. "Skye needs good energy."

"That doesn't even make sense," Lydia says, but Skye glares at her, so she goes along with it. LeDeanna and Molly have their hands on Skye's shoulders, so Lydia reaches out to touch her arm, just above the hem of her glove.

Ariel opens the door. "Ten—oh, seriously? Are we _really_ doing this?"

"Come on, come on," Molly says, "we don't have all day."

"Fine," Ariel says, coming in far enough to put her hand alongside Molly's. "Go with the great spaghetti monster, lady."

"Go with _God_ ," Molly says.

LeDeanna leans in to kiss Skye on the cheek. "I believe in you!"

"This is a fucking cakewalk and you know it," Lydia says. "Make me proud."

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave Caristia praise for her art at [her masterpost on LJ](http://caristia.livejournal.com/894.html) or at the individual DA pages linked above.
> 
> Come follow us on tumblr: [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) (verity) & [caristia](http://caristia.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [knockforaloop (tiac)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiac/pseuds/knockforaloop) Log in to view. 




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